The Highlander's Excellent Adventure (Survivors, #8)

by Galen, Shana

  Emmeline might have screamed, but she did not have enough air to breathe let alone scream. The ground rushed by in a blur, and she hung on to the horse for all she was worth. The man who had grabbed her held on too. Clearly it was not Colonel Draven. Not only because he would never mistake her for Ines, but also because she recognized the boots she was staring at.

  Emmeline tried to crane her neck to peer up at Stratford. She didn’t have the air to speak, but she was able to catch a glimpse of him. His blond hair flew back in the wind, his cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes glittered like gems. Or perhaps that was the effect of the sun in her own eyes. Whatever it was, he looked more alive than she had ever seen him.

  Clearly, the man had gone mad.

  Emmeline smacked his calf with her hand, but he didn’t react. He probably barely felt her pummeling through the thick boot. She smacked him harder and wriggled about, but then realized the last thing she wanted was to tumble headlong onto the ground. Emmeline went still.

  Gradually, the road became rockier, and as they descended, sandier, and she detected the scent of salt in the air and could hear, even above the thundering of the hooves, the crash of waves on the shore. Stratford slowed the horse, walking the beast as Emmeline stared down at sand. Emmeline caught her breath, now that she wasn’t being jounced within an inch of her life, and called up, “Let me down.”

  “Not yet,” Stratford said. “We are almost there.”

  Emmeline looked right then left. Almost where? They were on a beach, rocky walls rising around them. The sea was rough, churning black with white caps dotting the waves coming ashore. It was not the sort of sea one bathed in or even dipped toes in. A spray from one of the waves proved to her that the water was as cold as ice.

  But as they moved along the beach, the waves seemed to calm, and though Emmeline at first thought it was her imagination, a few moments later the horse passed under a rocky arch, and the crashing of the waves ceased, replaced by a lapping sound.

  “Here we are,” Stratford said, lowering her to the ground. Emmeline looked about the small cove in confusion.

  “Why are we here?”

  Stratford dismounted and took the horse’s reins. “We are here because we need to talk.”

  Emmeline shook her head. “I have said everything I wish. And anything you want to say could have been said at the house. Now I am damp and cold and annoyed. Take me back.”

  “Not yet.”

  Emmeline blew out a breath. “What else is there to say, Stratford? Why drag me all the way here to tell me the same thing you have already told me? You cannot expect me to continue to bare my soul when you do not trust me enough to bare yours.”

  “That’s why I’ve brought you,” Stratford said. “To bare my soul. To give you my heart as well, if you’ll have it.”

  She stared at him, but he gestured behind her, and she turned to see the opening of some sort of cave. The angle meant it was hidden from view until one was almost upon it. “Shall we?” he asked.

  The man was mad. Speaking of baring souls and now expecting her to enter a cave.

  “Emmeline, please,” he said.

  She blew out a breath. “Aren’t there bats in caves?”

  “Not this one,” he said. “It floods at high tide, which is hours away.”

  She must have looked dubious—bats and floods did not appeal—because he went on, “Duncan assured me the cave is quite deserted but well worth a look.” He stepped inside, leading the horse. Emmeline stood outside. It was too far to walk back. And she had never been inside a cave before. She took a step closer and saw that Stratford had brought some sort of torch. He lit the end of it, and the smell of sulphur and pitch stung her nose.

  She edged closer, past the horse, who was contently munching from a feed bag now, and further into the cave. Stratford watched her, torch in one hand, saddle bag heaved over the other shoulder. She pointed at the bag. “What is in there?”

  “I thought we might have a picnic.”

  Emmeline could not be certain she heard him correctly. She stared at him, at his smiling face, and shook her head. “You are mad. If you wanted to have a picnic, why not simply ask me? Why throw me over a horse and jostle me to within an inch of my life over two miles of rocky road? And all this to persuade me I should eat inside a dark, damp cave?”

  “Would you have said yes if I’d asked?”

  She stared at him. “Of course not. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  He offered her a hand. “Which is why I did not ask.”

  She stared down at his hand.

  Finally, Stratford sighed. “Emmie.” It was what her family had called her when she’d been a child, and she looked up at his use of the name. “You will have your apology. You will have your groveling. Just let me finish my grand gesture.”

  Her heart sped up. Did this mean he did want to marry her? And if he did, was that still what she wanted? He’d hurt her, disappointed her. Did she really want to give him the opportunity to do it again? She looked past him and into the dark cave, where she could hear water dripping. “That is your grand gesture?”

  “Yes?” he said, tone laced with uncertainty.

  “Fine.” She put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her into the depths of the cave.

  Once they were through the initial low, tight entryway, the cave opened up. Emmeline could stand straight and when Stratford lifted the torch, she gasped in amazement at the glittering surface above. “What is it?”

  “Duncan says crystals grow on the cave formations. Apparently, they are not valuable, just pretty in the firelight.”

  Emmeline looked about her at the crystals winking in the glow of the torch. Long, cone-like formations hung down, some of them bare but many almost covered with crystals like a formal robe might be encrusted with jewels.

  “Come this way,” Stratford said. “There’s a place to sit deeper inside.”

  Emmeline held his hand and tried not to step in the small pools of water gathered in the uneven floor of the cave. They squeezed through another opening and stepped into an even larger room. She immediately saw where Murray had thought they might sit. There was a long, flat ledge at the far end of the chamber. Stratford led her there, opened the saddle bag, and laid down several blankets. The bottom two were thick and would keep the damp and chill from reaching the top two. As he worked the end of the torch into a space in the wall nearby, Emmeline sat and pulled her knees close to her chest. Like the other room, this room glittered with crystals. The cone-like formations were smaller and there were fewer crystals, as though this chamber had been formed later than the other, but the smaller formations meant it looked almost as though the ceiling of the chamber was studded with stars.

  “It is so quiet in here,” she said. “I cannot even hear the waves.” She looked up at him, at the way his blond hair burned almost golden in the firelight, and his handsome face, so familiar to her, was filled with tension.

  “I must tell you something,” he said.

  “I have no choice but to listen.”

  He winced. “About that. I should have asked—”

  She waved a hand. “I like it. You are the last man I would expect to plan something reckless and wild like this. I like it,” she repeated.

  He sat beside her, took her hand. “I have loved you for as long as I can remember. First, when we were children, I loved you as I loved my sisters, and then as we grew older, I loved you as a friend. But...” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you remember your first Season?”

  Even the mention of it made her a little sick. She had been such a dismal failure.

  “It was before I went to war, before I left for the Continent. I saw you at a ball. I don’t think you knew I was there. I wasn’t escorting you, but I caught a glimpse of you, and my breath lodged in my throat. You were so beautiful, Emmeline.”

  She shook her head. “You know that’s not true.”

  He took her hand. “It’s true to me. It’s what I th
ought in that moment. You were dancing, your ivory skirts swirling about, and you were telling your partner something—by the look of it, correcting him on some point.”

  Her Very Bad Habit, of course. She laughed. “That was before I realized men did not wish to be told when they were mistaken.”

  “No, we do not, but that has never stopped you. You always say what you think, what you mean. And I realized that you were the last person to pretend the circumstances of my birth did not matter if they did. They truly do not matter to you.”

  Her hands tightened on his, her heart clenching. “Stratford, if I had known, all those years, that you felt so unloved, so unwelcome, I would have done more, said more.”

  “I know you would have, but that was not your role to play. I wish I had not been made to feel like a mistake, but what I have realized—what you have helped me realize—is that does not have to be my role to play. I do not need the baron’s love. I do not need my mother’s affection. I have become the man I am without them. But there is one person whose love and affection I do need.”

  Emmeline began to tremble. She had dreamed of hearing these words—longed for them and dreaded them.

  “I need your love and affection, Emmeline. It’s you I thought about when I lay in a ditch in France, waiting for dawn to launch an attack and not knowing whether it was my last night on earth. It is you I think of when I see a beautiful painting or landscape. You I want to share it with. And when I think of my childhood—my lonely childhood—the bright spot in that darkness is always you.” He released one of her hands, moved off the ledge, and knelt on one knee.

  “I know you do not want to marry. I know the last thing you want is a man controlling you as your mother has done. But I swear to you, if you marry me, I will never tell you what to say, what to wear, or what to eat. I just want to love you—you, the clever, opinionated, beautiful woman I fell in love with all those years ago.”

  It seemed to Emmeline the torch grew brighter and the room was filled with warmth and light. The dread she’d felt for so many Seasons at the idea of having a husband—a lord and master—faded. Stratford knelt before her. Stratford. She must have loved him almost as long as he’d loved her, only she hadn’t realized it until recently. And why hadn’t she realized it? He had always been, and was, perfect for her. “Stratford, I—”

  “Damn, I forgot to ask you the question.” He cleared his throat. “Emmeline Anne Wellesley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She wanted to smile at him, at the look of nervousness on his face. He really did not know how she would answer. Foolish man. How could she ever say no?

  “Stratford Leopold Fortescue, I will.” She pulled him up and off his knees and into her arms. And when he kissed her, it was the sweetest, softest, most respectful kiss she could ever imagine. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked.

  He blew out a breath. “Emmeline, I am trying to behave as a gentleman should to his betrothed.”

  She cocked her head. “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  She pulled his mouth back to hers for another kiss. “Then love me.” This time she kissed him, her mouth taking his in a fervent mating of lips and tongues. Her hands roamed over his arms, his broad shoulders, his strong back. But she wanted to feel more of him as she had that day in the spring. She pushed at his coat, and he pulled back.

  “Miss Wellesley, I fear you intend to take advantage of me.”

  She looked about the cave. “And you brought me here because you are such a romantic?”

  “I brought you here because I knew we could talk without interruption.”

  “That’s not all we can do without interruption.”

  He shook his head then removed his coat and hung it over a nearby rock. “You are a wicked woman, Miss Wellesley.”

  “You like it.” She beckoned him closer.

  “I do.”

  She pulled at his neckcloth until it came loose, and she could unfasten the row of buttons at his throat. She placed small kisses there as she lifted the tails of the shirt from his trousers and moved her hands underneath the linen to the hard muscles of his abdomen and chest. “Unfasten your cuffs,” she murmured, loving the feel of his skin under her fingertips.

  “I’ll freeze in here without a shirt.” But he reached for his cuffs.

  “I’ll keep you warm.”

  He stood and she helped him draw off his shirt, admiring the way his chest gleamed in the torchlight. She went to her knees and pressed kisses on his neck and chest and down his belly. When she reached the waistband of his trousers, the evidence of his arousal was clear. She reached for the placket, and he caught her hand.

  “Not so fast. I haven’t had a chance to see you.”

  She gave him a wary look. “If I remove this gown, I will never be able to find all the pins to put it back on again, not to mention it’s far too cold in here.”

  “I’ll keep you warm,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her, his hands making quick work of her bodice, removing several dress pins until he could push it down. Her nipples hardened when the wool bodice was removed, and he pushed down her stays. She was cold with only the linen shift over her skin, but she shivered at the heat in his eyes as he drew that fabric down, revealing one nipple.

  “I’ve dreamed of these,” he said, lowering his head and kissing the turgid point. His other hand cupped her breast and kneaded it gently, taking that nipple between thumb and forefinger until she was panting with need. A few more tugs of fabric, and he had her fully exposed, his mouth all over her, making her hot and provoking an insistent tug in her lower belly.

  “I want you,” she whispered as he laid her back, hands braced on either side of her, eyes full of love and desire.

  “I want you.” His hand slid under her skirts, cupping her calves then her thighs, then parting her thighs and moving upward until he paused.

  Eyes closed, she opened them at his sound of confusion. “What is this?” He touched the material of her drawers, tracing the fabric. “Are these—?”

  “Drawers? Yes.”

  He blinked then laughed. “Good God, I had no idea.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I will never understand why a woman wearing drawers is considered more forward than going without. How is a woman with a bare arse under her gown demurer than a woman wearing drawers?”

  “I don’t know, and it’s a question I’ll have to ponder later.” He found the slit in the fabric and his hand brushed against her curls, making her inhale sharply.

  “Yes, later,” she said.

  “Thank God I did not know you wore these before.” His fingers found her flesh and brushed over it lightly, teasingly. “I would not have been able to resist you.”

  “Men,” she muttered. Or at least that was her intention. The word came out on a gasp as he found her center and parted her lips.

  “You’re so wet.” He slid a finger inside her, and she arched in response. “God, yes. I could watch you do that for the rest of my life.” He withdrew his finger, slid it up to that small nub that ached for his touch, and circled her.

  She moaned.

  “I am the luckiest man in England,” he said.

  “We’re in Scotland,” she said before she remembered to keep her Impertinence to herself.

  But Stratford only chuckled. “The luckiest man in England and Scotland. You like that?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He slid a finger inside her again, his thumb circling her, and making her forget everything except the feel of his hands on her.

  “I want to see you come. I’ve dreamed of seeing you again.”

  “I want to see you,” she said, opening her eyes. She reached for his trousers again, and his free hand stopped her.

  “Should we save that for the wedding night?”

  She frowned. “When we’re both exhausted after a day of smiling at our tiresome families and then we must be quiet because we don’t want to wake up the house?” She looked ab
out the cave. “I like this much better.”

  He pulled back. “I can’t take you without marrying you.”

  Emmeline sighed. She loved Stratford’s honor, but sometimes it could be tiresome. And then she remembered.

  They were in Scotland.

  “Do you have a length of rope?”

  He gave her a look that said he thought she had gone quite mad. “No.”

  “Ribbon then? String?”

  He moved to the satchel, untied one of the packages of food he had inside—he really had planned for a picnic—and offered her the string.

  “I know this is not legal, but it will be weeks before we can marry in a church.” She twined her fingers with his and laid the string over their hands.

  “A handfasting?” he asked. “Don’t we need witnesses?”

  “Don’t we need clothing?” She gestured down to her open bodice and his shirtless chest. “Details, my love.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Very well. What do we say?”

  “I don’t know.” She gazed up at him. “What do you want to say?”

  He took a breath then placed his free hand over their joined hands. He took one end of the string and looped it over their wrists. “I, Stratford Leopold Fortescue, do promise before you and before God to love and cherish you all the days of my life. I will forsake all others and love only you.” His eyes were locked with hers. “How was that?”

  “I think,” she murmured. “You are supposed to say something about worshipping me with your body.”

  His gaze lowered to peruse her body then met hers again. “You’re right, of course. Emmeline, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “And I promise to never doubt your love, to never doubt my worth, and to make certain you feel beautiful and perfect every day of your life.” He kissed her gently.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. “Thank you.” It was a long moment before she could swallow the lump in her throat and say anything further. She wrapped the other end of the string around their joined hands. “I, Emmeline Anne Wellesley, do promise before you and God to love you with my whole heart, to cherish and honor you until we grow old, to tend you when you are sick, to mourn with you when you suffer loss, to swim naked with you when we find another hot spring.”